Man Made Reality

Reality, you are shout; into a meaningless void

An abyss down consciousness- of truth, devoid

The waking state is but some sort of dream

What we see is not all out there, it seems

Reality, you are but a perpetual mirage

Running through souls, an unremitting montage

You are an imagination of a string of thoughts

Your survival is dependent, otherwise naught

While I daydream, it seems you aren’t real

But an phantasmic composition of the surreal

Your condition can be swayed single biased belief

A single shadow of doubt can unfurl the sheaf

You are but a screen, of a master projector

Merely playing the film by a renowned director

There is no script, but the human mind,

To which your very existence is confined


Of Odd Titles and First Posts

As my journal entries rose exponentially, and the ideas pacing through my head increased their frequency, I decided to make a blog. Just a stack of polaroid pictures; each with a bunch of scribbled emotions, ranging in colour as well as saturation.

Writing is much like talking, except its uninterrupted- one of the many reasons why I love it so much. Sprawling across with a fountain pen, continuously. Except if you write continuously, you’re bound to make a few blots. Even if not on paper, these blots always exist. Somewhat like memoirs of deep thoughts, frozen moments, or confused situations; when you don’t really know what to do. These think blots are what make writing a solace for me, and for many across the seas. You don’t quite know what you’re in for, until you open the unmarked doors, the dusty cabinets, and the jar of unspoken words.

So here’s to the words we don’t speak, because they find their home on paper. Here’s to ink blots and think blots and first posts. Here’s to many more.